


You Steal My Lines, You Strike Me Dumb

by summerstorm



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-20
Updated: 2009-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam gets caught in the rain. Sex ensues. Er. There's a <em>little</em> bit of plot, but it's basically just porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Steal My Lines, You Strike Me Dumb

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/cliche_bingo/profile)[**cliche_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/cliche_bingo/). And I'd hereby like to claim preemptive artistic license on the weather as featured in this story, tyfyt.

It's cold as hell outside.

Some of the horrible weather's swept past the revolving doors of the hotel, and Kris can feel freezing puffs of air sneak into his jeans, up his calves. It's not wintertime cold—it's still early September—but it's an abrupt change from the heat the past few days. Kris isn't much for checking weather reports, because it's not like it matters to him—he's driven everywhere and fed by other people and pretty much has to do nothing himself if he so chooses—but the light grey clouds made a pathetic attempt at drizzling late in the afternoon, when he was signing someone's shoes in the barricades, and it feels weird. Not weird like an omen or like the Deluge, but weird like Kris hasn't seen rain in a while, and it _is_ September.

September means there's one week worth of shows left, and then it's—new stuff. Exciting stuff, really, he doesn't dread it or anything, but the rain's made him think about that—about his routine changing, and how it's all about to come full circle and keep moving forward instead of going back. Touring the country's been a lot like a vacation, in the sense that it's a stop on his way someplace else, and it almost feels like once it's over he'll be back in Conway burning his and Katy's matching aprons and setting himself up for a career in business management.

But that's not what it'll be like, or where he'll be, or who he'll be with.

The sun's three minutes away from setting completely, but the sky was almost annoyingly sunny this morning, and he thinks it should at least still be warm now. Warmer. Or the hotel should come prepared to lower the air conditioning according to every minute variation of the weather; he doubts it would occur to most people to put on thicker clothes just to have drinks at the bar.

Another chilly breeze runs past his ankles, and Kris can feel his leg hair stand on end. He leans back on the juncture of the L-shaped couch where most of the top ten is sitting, and attempts to calculate if there's enough space beside him to fold his legs over the seat without bothering Megan. He's been on his feet for most of the day, and every few minutes he gets this twinge in his knees, like their joints have decided to melt into an unbending, solid straight line.

The weather isn't helping, either, and Adam's standing near the door with one of their publicists, figuring out how to phrase why he shortened his set and skipped all the merchandise signing, again. Kris would just repeat whatever he said last time and drink something hot and go to sleep—if your throat's acting up, arguing about public statements doesn't seem like the way to go. Plus that door he's standing next to leads into the lobby, and the lobby's where the revolving doors to the Ice Age are. That cannot be healthy.

Kris is tempted to go over there and drag him back, but there's a glass table and about six grown people standing on the way, so he rubs his calves together instead, hopes that'll warm up his legs.

"You okay?" Megan says to his left. He does some weird half-assed thing with his eyebrows that she seems to take as the nod it's meant to be, and she sighs, "Man, I can't imagine how hard it must be to hide something like _that_," vaguely gesturing her head towards Adam.

Kris chuckles. "Surprisingly not that difficult when people think you're married." He hopes they won't be having this conversation again. Everyone else seems pretty into whatever they're talking about, which is why Kris was watching Adam just now, but then Anoop's head turns to him, and Kris knows he's screwed.

"It's going to be _crayzay_ when you do come out, though," Matt says to his right, grinning. He's got a glint in his eye like he's already had more than enough to drink. If he hadn't, he wouldn't even take part in this conversation. Kris blames this on the weather. "Like, jeez. You're gonna have to ration all this information to the press. It's gonna take you months to cover everything."

"I'm aware of that, Matt, thanks," Kris says with a grimace, and takes a sip of his beer. It's colder than the weather. That's a bright side. Then he realizes he can probably cross his legs over the couch, and his shoes are not exactly uncomfortable to sit on, so he does that. His joints don't make a sound, but Kris can hear them screech anyway.

He's convinced imaginary articulation shrieking is a million times preferable to having this conversation again. He's talked to Adam about it, and Adam's been super gracious about compartmentalizing yet another part of his life until Kris's publicists find a way to unleash the facts onto the unassuming public. It's not like talking about it to other people might bring an unexpected eureka moment into his life.

Adam's kind of the one sure thing for him, after the tour and everything ends, but he doesn't really know why it feels that way, and he'd rather not think about how long it's taking him to fit that aspect of his life into the big picture. Or how difficult it is to make sense of the big picture, for that matter.

"Don't worry, man, I totally get it," Anoop claims. "Wait for the debut album to drop before you get the press going on all the lies you've told. I approve," and he tilts his glass to signify it.

Kris considers not biting, but before he can hold it in, he says, "They're not _lies_." Anoop raises an eyebrow, forcing him to both continue and want to smack himself. "I'm legally married. And I'm not waiting for my album to come out, I just need to figure out how to—gradually release things so the press doesn't make it into some sort of home-wrecking sob story."

Anoop nods solemnly. "Because you're _cheating_."

"I'm not—"

"_Legally_ you are," Anoop points out, which is kind of true from the no-lies angle. The thing with Anoop is you can't discuss anything with him without somehow getting sidetracked into logic. Logic that doesn't apply to the world at large, but that sounds irritatingly cogent anyway. "And man, you can wave bah-bye to that whole wholesome, straight yet homo-loving Christian boy thing you have going."

Kris blinks. "My point," he concedes, and catches Megan squinting at him before he notices Adam making his way towards the space next to Kris. Kris automatically straightens his legs to let Adam take a seat, and just as automatically drapes them over Adam's lap. Adam's hands set on the lower part of Kris's thighs, squeezing gently in this sort of subtle massage-y way. Kris hasn't even asked—he's looking at Megan, and Adam seems to follow his gaze towards her. Absentmindedly, Adam presses his fingers into the sides of Kris's knees, light but relieving.

Megan shakes her head like her neck is her hips and she's belly dancing, and she glances at Adam, says, "I don't know."

Adam looks back at Kris with a frown, and Kris shrugs. "Lies I Told the Press, Volume Three Thousand," he says, like it's the title of something, and Adam silently snorts before turning back to Megan.

"His prerogative," he begins, practiced speech, enunciating. "It's a shitload of information way susceptible to misinterpretation. I'm leaving that to his publicist and his self-control. Do we have to have this conversation every single time you guys get bored?"

"I'm not bored," says Megan. "I'm just, I don't know. How can it not bother you? It must be super crappy to be in love with someone and have to hide it."

"Isn't it more like mislabeling it, though?" Matt jumps in. "We're just calling everything bromance these days. Everything that's not, like, pornographic falls under the umbrella term."

"Plus wedding band," Kris adds, raising his hand.

Matt goes on like he hasn't heard a word. "I've never felt the need to kiss Anoop's forehead in public, though. Or in private, for that matter." He looks over at Anoop, mouths, "No offense," and Anoop brushes it off with a wave. "It would be weird if I did. People would wonder." Then, as an afterthought, "_I_ would wonder."

"Wedding band," Kris says again, and then Lil slips her cellphone into the pocket of her jeans and grins at Kris. Lil's a lifesaver.

"I hid a relationship once," she says, and heads turn. Not everyone's heard this story. Kris doesn't keep track, because it's not like he ever feels the need to discuss Lil's marital life with other people. "Affair. Real affair, not just 'legally'. And lemme tell you, it was as complicated as these two's, even without paparazzi to follow me around to motels and crap," and off she goes. She focuses her sights on the people who are listening—Megan, Danny, Todd, Anoop's handler.

Kris stretches his neck, asks Adam if he solved that issue with the publicist, and Adam looks at him like he can't believe Kris is even wondering. The room feels warmer now, though Kris isn't sure if that's the weather or the lack of space around him, the heat radiating from Adam's thighs where Kris's legs are lying. He doesn't really feel like talking or doing anything much, and he's about to suggest they go to bed when Adam brings himself to his feet, unceremoniously holding Kris's knees up and off his lap.

"Much as I'd love to not act like I'm eighty," he says, "I think I'm gonna go to bed."

"Resting your voice is a good excuse, you know," Kris says, and Adam smiles at him. "I can go with—"

"Nah, just stay here," Adam interrupts. "Have some fun. I'm not the best company tonight."

"Your loss," Kris replies offhandedly. He wants to say something about how he's too exhausted to care about conversation or anything other than spending the next fifteen hours in bed, but Adam's jumping over the back of the couch like he's determined to leave without him, and Kris gets that some nights you can really use a king-sized bed all to yourself, so he doesn't impose. He just props himself up on one hand, grasps Adam's wrist before Adam walks out of reach, and says, "This is private enough, right?"

"If you want to hug, yes. If you want to make out, hardly."

Kris figures the balance leans more towards private when it's something in between, and either way he doesn't think anyone in the hotel bar cares about them, so he mouths, "C'mere," and pulls Adam down to press their lips together for a couple of seconds—goodnight kiss, that's all.

Adam's teeth tug a little at Kris's bottom lip, stretching out the kiss, and Adam says, "There's seriously no middle ground between hugging and making out. My self-control is a snap away from failing."

"You think it's easy for me?" Kris mentions with a small smile, not really thinking about it, but there's something in Adam's look that seems to imply that yes, he thinks it's easy for Kris, and then Adam claims once again that he really needs some rest and walks off, leaving Kris to sink into the couch and try not to look confused enough for Megan to ask about it.

Because, no, it's not _easy_ for him to hold back, but he's never been much for public displays of affection—he wasn't when he was with Katy and he's not going to slip with Adam. Kissing someone is private—not necessarily because it will lead to sex, but because it's _something_, something remarkable that he wants to concentrate on without worrying about who's watching or what they might think or if there's a kid around and their parents think it's inappropriate.

And he's not the only one who gains something from hiding it. If someone found out before they got a chance to go over everything, Adam would as always get the spotlight, and Kris knows most of the press would approach the story as some real-life example of how gay people will destroy your marriage, never mind that Kris's was already broken by the time he even learned Adam's name.

So he's not sure if there's something substantial to how bizarre Adam's been acting lately—colder than usual, even kind of gloomy—or it's just how busy they've been with their albums and all those flights. Kris doesn't want to imagine what it must be like to do all those things with a sore throat.

He doesn't feel comfortable talking to Adam about it, though, which is what elevates things from odd to kind of baffling. Kris is pretty sure it's just the beginning of a cold and it should all blow over in less than a week, but that doesn't mean he feels good about it _now_.

And then there's the freaking weather. It's getting colder, and if there's one thing Kris didn't think he'd be doing on tour, that's spending one of his extremely rare free days inside a hotel because it was raining outside. And it definitely looks like it's drizzling again, now, and it's colder than it was when it did earlier, so there's a pretty big chance of that normally unlikely situation happening for real.

Besides, no one's come prepared to go out in this weather, so if he blames his weird mood on the rain he doesn't think he's going to meet with anyone's disapproval.

When he finally goes to bed, the storm's all grown up and almost over and done with, and he can hear it fizzle out like candlelight as he drifts off to sleep.

   
 

 

Kris wakes up to a sunrise muffled by thick clouds and what looks like a freaking waterfall flowing down his window. He'd kinda hoped the downpour last night would be all the precipitation Michigan had in store for him. God knows Arkansas has always had its share of intermittent weather, so maybe he's just spent too long in California, where the rain alloted to each season seems to get together and fall down in one disturbingly world-stopping go every few months. Either way, he rubs his eyes, and a part of him is surprised when he opens them again and no sunshine greets him.

It's dark enough to go back to sleep without a lot of trouble. It's early, too, and he probably should slide back under the covers instead of sit up against the headboard and squint at the droplet massacre going on down the window panes. It's strange, though, because this is hardly the first time he goes to sleep alone at a hotel while Adam spends most of the night at a bar or a club or somewhere Kris didn't find appealing to spend more than two hours in, but Kris has gotten used to waking up when Adam's weight shifts off the mattress, and it kinda feels like he's waiting for that to happen before he makes a decision.

It's not so bad that he can't get up and make it happen, though.

He slips on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants after going to the bathroom and brushing his teeth, and he grabs his room card and his copy of Adam's from the dresser on the way out.

He doesn't look at the floor until he steps barefoot on something wet, but it's hard to miss the disaster after that. There are wet, muddy tracks all over the hallway, from the elevator up to Adam's door, and they don't look like just shoe prints; there are a few spots where the water's practically transparent, failing to puddle on the hardwood floor.

Kris frowns and keeps walking, careful not to step on any more puddles. This doesn't seem like the kind of hotel where the floor stays dirty long enough for the guests to see it.

He hears water running before he walks into Adam's room and calls out his name. He doesn't get an answer, but the bedside lamp is on, and there seems to be another lamp on in the bathroom, and yet more footprints across the room, going through the half-open door, into the light.

Kris has no idea what he expects to find there, but his eyebrows raise before he even processes what's going on.

Adam's standing over the counter, staring into the mirror with a cotton pad in his hand, _shivering_. When he notices Kris standing on the doorway, he doesn't look at him, just keeps sliding the pad down his temple and stills his jaw long enough to mutter, "Hey."

That's when Kris looks him up and down and realizes he's dripping wet, and stupid enough to start peeling off his make-up without undressing or attempting to dry off first.

"What the hell happened to you?" Kris says, low under sudden thunder. He repeats the question again, louder, as he takes a few steps towards Adam and turns off the tap. The lightbulbs above the mirror shed a gleam over the water trickle falling down Adam's temples, hair pushed back carelessly and soaked.

Adam opens his mouth to say something, but his chin trembles and the only thing that gets out is, "Walk," and then a quick, incredulous, "Suddenly started _pouring_. So fucking weird." He's still staring in the mirror, concentrating on his cheek, and Kris has to take the pad away from Adam to make him look back at Kris.

His foundation's washed off for the most part—Kris doesn't think he was wearing that much to begin with, considering what time it is and how well put-together Adam looks if you disregard the fact that he's soaked to the bone—but there are a few blobs of beige here and there, covering up patches of freckles.

"I look like a half-peeled fish," Adam says with a breathy, cold laugh. "With scales. Lots of scales," and his whole body seems to shiver again from the effort. "Ridiculous stupid scales," he clarifies, and if Kris thought Adam was talking about the foundation coming off in flakes, it's clear he's talking about his freckles now. Kris reaches out to hold Adam's face, flicking his thumb across his chin, revealing more freckles in its wake. Kris finds them cute, kind of like a special thing that only Kris gets to revel in.

"You look hot, shut up," Kris says quickly, because it's true, and it takes him a few seconds to get it together, say, "Okay, don't—" and grab a small towel.

Adam's shirt—Adam's whole outfit, really, but Kris is looking at his face right now—is sticking to him, dark black cotton embracing the shape of Adam's collarbones. It's kind of entrancing, the way his neck breathes white and wet, and he can feel Adam's pulse when he wraps the towel gently around his shoulders, under his hair. Kris can't help leaning in to touch his lips to it, feeling it get warmer and warmer when he presses the flat of his tongue against it, soft but determined.

Kris has never been much for rain, but he's surprised at how good it tastes on Adam's skin, salty and clean and refreshing. Eventually Adam chuckles, an earthquake under Kris's tongue, and he realizes what he's doing, backs off.

He blinks, looks up at Adam's half-amused face. "This can't be good for your throat," he attempts, and Adam's grin widens at the obviousness.

Kris hears a t, maybe tell, like Adam's trying to say tell me about it, except he gives up halfway through and the sound that comes out is teeth chattering instead, sharply audible despite the rumbling of the rain. Kris tugs the towel around Adam's shoulders up to absorb some of the water from his hair.

"You should probably take this off," Kris says, grasping at the hem of Adam's shirt. He holds the towel back while Adam yanks the shirt off over his head. His teeth make a clicking noise again, and Kris tiptoes to kiss him, stop the shivering.

Adam's chest radiates cold, the trace of freezing water a numbing sheet where it presses against Kris's body. Kris is vaguely aware that his own t-shirt's getting wet, but he can't bring himself to stop kissing Adam, not when Adam's weak enough for his mouth to seem pliant, when the temperature's slowly growing warmer between them just from Kris's body heat.

"How long did you stay out there?" he says instead. His hands are on Adam's waist, he realizes belatedly, glancing down, and instead of answering the question Adam works a denim-clad thigh between Kris's, pulls him closer so he needs less strength to move his leg steadily back and forth, rubbing Kris through his sweatpants.

It's cold, actually, especially when his sweatpants absorb some of the still water from Adam's jeans, but he likes it anyway, how it contrasts with the vaguely warm relief Kris feels every time the contact fades and his brain seems to react a little. It's unsettling in a kind of unexpectedly sexy way, and he lifts his hands to Adam's chest, warmer where his bangs haven't dripped on again yet.

When he looks up Adam's smirking at him, intermittent amused smile like he's too cold to keep a facial expression on for longer than eight seconds. Kris coughs and steps back on the next retreat of Adam's leg, opens his eyes wide to figure out what he's supposed to be doing here.

Keeping Adam from catching pneumonia, that would be the goal, he thinks. Except every time he touches a towel and looks at Adam's chest, he wants to lick every last drop of water off of his skin, even though that'd be the opposite of practical, and Kris is the only one here who's thinking about that. Adam has this thing about sex becoming his first priority at any given time once he's made someone hard, and it's difficult to keep one's own priorities in order when Adam's are different and Adam looks like _that_, chest heaving and hand guiding Kris's glance down to his belt buckle.

Shit.

They're still close, and they're more than definitely close enough to kiss again, which Kris guesses he can allow himself to do, just one kiss, right? He'll go back to making sure Adam doesn't die of hypothermia in a minute, when Adam stops doing that thing with his tongue on the roof of Kris's mouth.

Except when Adam stops doing that, when Adam distances himself enough to speak, even if the words barely have to move to fall into Kris's parted lips, Adam says, "Your mouth is hot," like that's conducive to anything useful.

Like that's conducive to anything other than Kris ducking his head to flick his tongue over Adam's jaw, then drag it down the side of his neck, following the line of muscle to his collarbone. Adam probably doesn't care, but Kris definitely does. He scrapes his teeth down Adam's chest, occasionally letting the tip of his tongue sneak out and lick, maybe press against not as cold as before skin. It feels good to make Adam feel better, actually better, not just sex-better. Kind of like magic, like if Kris closes his eyes he can almost see Adam's imaginary blue skin turn a healthier shade of pink under his magic touch.

It's really, really stupid, but his mouth _is_ hot, so he keeps going, letting himself linger on Adam's nipples, scraping at them to make Adam gasp.

There's still a towel around Adam's neck, except his hair's just dripping wet, so it's useless, and Kris is kind of thankful there are more water drops on Adam's face for him to drink in.

Adam laughs when Kris sucks on his temple, and Kris doesn't think anything of it until Adam says casually, "If you like licking water off me, I can just walk fully dressed into the shower some time."

"Rain tastes different," Kris mutters.

"Rain is water. Tastes exactly like water."

"It's not that," Kris—_gasps_, basically, running the tip of his tongue along the backside of Adam's ear. It's the accidental aspect to it, Kris thinks. Like he didn't walk into this room expecting it, and the surprise, the fact that Adam didn't mean to get himself freezing wet, is what makes it so hot.

And Adam is still freezing wet—cold wet, maybe, now—and Kris keeps getting distracted. It's not all his fault, though, because Adam's knee is pushing up against Kris's crotch again, and that's not how this is—they can wait till Adam's fine for sure.

"Stop," Kris says, stepping backwards, though he's pretty sure he doesn't sound really convinced, "you need to dry off." At least that involves getting Adam out of his jeans, though, and once those are down to Adam's ankles Adam hops on the counter, hands clenching around the porcelain, so Kris can pull the pants off completely.

Kris is kneeling at that point, and when he looks up Adam's staring back into the mirror, cotton pad in hand again, still working on his make-up. Of all the things he could be doing, like toweling off his hair, which is still kind of drippy, he's fixing his make-up.

That doesn't keep Kris from staring at Adam's cock. Or, his boxers, but Adam's half hard and his underwear's wet on top of being tight to begin with, which leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Kris doesn't know how he's supposed to think straight when all his blood's rushing to his dick.

He's holding one of Adam's calves in his hand, and it just. God, he wants those legs around him. Those thighs tense under his hands, he thinks, almost holding onto them to prop himself to his feet. His hands keep moving of their own volition, sliding up under the sides of Adam's boxer briefs, touching skin as far as the counter will let them until Adam hops off and Kris can grab his ass.

Kris clears his throat, attempts consciousness. "You should take a shower, though," he says.

Adam laughs, head tipping back. "Only thing I _kind of_ wanna take right now is a nap." Kris raises an eyebrow. "It just seems right, you know, get soaked, dry off a little, get under the warm covers."

"How did you even get this wet?" Kris asks, because _seriously_.

"I didn't think it would start pouring," Adam says. He's not shivering anymore. That's good. Kris presses closer. It's still a bit cold, but better. Much better. He can feel Adam's erection against his hip, too, and now that the possibility of sickness seems gone, Kris lets himself believe it. Lets his thumb trace the waistband of Adam's boxers, his hand fall and palm Adam's dick over the fabric.

Adam's boxers are soaked, but it's mostly heat that reaches Kris's palm. A weird blend of the storm going on out the window, in the real world, and just _this_, this private thing between them. It's kind of a corny thought to have when he's basically stroking Adam's dick, but whatever. That's what it feels like.

"Right. 'Cause the sky was so blue all day yesterday," he says instead.

"So what? I'm a child of southern California," Adam replies.

"All the more reason for you to take notice."

"Not really. When I see clouds, I just don't necessarily think it's going to rain," Adam points out, amused. "Plus I wasn't really planning on touring Grand Rapids Michigan at six in the morning until - five fifty-five."

Kris frowns. That's—two hours out there, at least. And he doesn't think Adam went that far, which means he just—got soaked first and thought about coming back later. Kris can't think of anything that would cause Adam to need such a long walk, unless he was maybe feeling too numb to notice from whatever's causing his throat problems. Or unless Adam's not as okay with keeping this a secret as Kris thought he was.

"Is this because of last night?" Kris asks softly.

"No," Adam chuckles. "No. Kind of, at first, but mostly no."

"Okay." Kris nods, processing. "Okay. You really shouldn't have stayed out that long," he says, hand still stroking Adam lazily over his boxers. It's starting to show on Adam's face, in the way his lips won't stay closed, and Kris lets his hand drop to hold Adam's balls, squeeze gently.

"Yeah," Adam says, voice breaking in the middle of the word, and God, Kris loves seeing Adam like this, not vulnerable, exactly, but younger than usual. Less jaded, less knowledgeable, less in control. It's a good look on Adam, like the freckles, another way to drive Kris crazy, like Adam doesn't have enough already.

Kris's shirt feels wet when he moves his hands to Adam's hips, and Adam notices, maybe, because next thing he knows he's not wearing a t-shirt anymore. Not that he's complaining; when he tips his head to kiss Adam's lips and presses closer, Adam gets actual _goosebumps_ along his chest from Kris's damp skin, and Kris gets to feel it all over and kiss the freckles on his cheeks until Adam gets used to the temperature and his lips part, breathing deep, to search Kris's.

Adam kisses back, except he keeps getting distracted by the wet cotton pad he's using to clean the make-up off his eyes. Adam's probably the only person Kris knows who could be hard and still care about his eyeliner, so Kris steps back and lets him.

"What?" Adam says immediately, and Kris rolls his eyes. "Shut up," but his hand's on the counter now instead of wiping his face, which Kris counts as a win.

"I didn't say anything," Kris replies, a few seconds off. There are _so many freckles_. Adam's face freckles are like these old acquaintances that Kris doesn't get to see all that often, either because Adam goes to bed too late or gets up too early or doesn't bother taking his make-up off, and Kris always gets this almost childish urge to grab a pen and connect them to form a guitar or something when they're all on display like that.

"Stop," Adam says, and Kris kisses his chin. He thinks his eyelashes may have fluttered a little, but whatever. He blinks and snaps out of it, dives his thumbs under the waistband of Adam's boxers. He wants to keep his eyes on Adam's face all the way to the floor, but the second he brushes Adam's hipbone he's glancing down. Maybe gazing, who knows.

It's just kind of really hot to see the dark fabric slide over Adam's pale, freckled hips, down until the tip of Adam's cock peeks over it, down to reveal all of his red, hot, hard dick, and Kris can almost feel his mouth water at the sight. It's a little embarrassing.

He actually almost always tries to hold back from staring at him too long to begin with, like a vague surge of guilt still comes over him like it did at first, when he wasn't sure if he wanted Adam or was just confused after the whirlwind of getting married and separating and moving to LA and maybe wondering what his life would have been like had he been born somewhere other than Arkansas. He wants Adam, he _really_ does, he knows that now, but the reflex hasn't gone away yet, shows up at moments like this, reminding him how inappropriate it would have been back when they were friends to peel Adam's boxers off his hips and stare openly at Adam's cock feeling like he'd die if he couldn't taste it.

That's how it feels like right now, anyway, and it's more a warning than anything else when Kris says, "Mind if I blow you," with no questioning inflection whatsoever. He's turned on past the point of embarrassment right now, and his knees are starting to wobble a little. Like he's gonna drop to them either way.

"Go right ahead," Adam croaks, finally, and Kris grabs the cotton pad from his hand on the way down, and hurls it into the bathtub. If Adam wants his eyeliner removed, he's gonna have to wait for Kris to wipe it off with his thumb and some raindrops.

And licking, yeah, that's exactly why he's fucking his knees up some more on hard tile. Adam's looking at him, seems to have given up on toiletries for now, and is trying to keep something of an amused smile on his lips. Kris can tell Adam's trying to act ridiculously self-aware about this, like he thinks it's his responsibility to check in on Kris every step of the way, make sure they're on the same page at all times.

It's simultaneously frustrating and kind of endearing; Adam's not just smiling, but also biting his bottom lip in that way he does when he's downright _desperate_ to have Kris's mouth on his cock but still makes the effort to pretend it wouldn't hurt one bit if Kris decided to freak out and run. Kris is so willingly far in this he'd need a map or possibly GPS to find the way back out, though, so it's pretty much a waste of time and effort except for the extra thrill Kris gets when Adam's so far gone he stops trying.

Adam's boxers go down easy, and his thighs part to accommodate Kris. Adam's skin feels a bit cold under Kris's hands, and he presses his tongue to Adam's knee, licks his way up along the inside of his thigh until Adam groans his name and a muffled version of the word 'please', the kind that lets him pretend he hasn't actually said that.

"Kris, don't be a t—" Adam begins, but stops when Kris licks a stripe up the shaft, then closes his lips around the head, sucking lightly. Adam moans above him, the noise growing louder and settling into a rhythmic pattern when Kris takes him in deeper, fills his mouth.

He grips Adam's hips loosely, gives Adam wide room to fuck Kris's mouth until Adam's bucking up and babbling incoherently. As Adam's concentration slips so do his hands, slithering along the edge of the counter with a vague metallic sound. Kris grasps him tighter, keeping him in place, and it's all he can do not to touch himself, hold onto Adam, dig his fingers in and swallow around his cock, tongue teasing the slit on almost every down move until Adam's hoarse voice reaches him, the sound echoing in Kris's ears like some sort of delayed message, and Adam gasps his name, gasps, "Kris," over and over, "Kris, I'm gonna come," sharp and broken, like Kris needs the warning.

Kris really, really doesn't, and it's almost an angry reaction to Adam thinking he does to suck down harder, bring him over the edge with all his might until Adam's coming long and fast down his throat, and Kris swallows everything and still licks him through it, slower and weaker as Adam's hips settle down.

It feels heady to stand up, like adapting to another reality, which muffles Kris's deep feeling of _want_ as much as it possibly could, and Adam does his best to keep the contact, resting his head next to Kris's neck, recovering his breath against the hollow of Kris's throat. Adam's teeth ghost over skin, and after a while his hands slip past the waistband of Kris's sweatpants, grabbing his ass.

Kris blinks, head dropping back to kiss Adam. At this distance Adam's body cools off, a little too much, and Kris forces himself to regain some awareness.

"You okay?" he whispers.

Adam laughs, short and breathy. "Yeah," and his breath catches, such an obvious lie. Adam's shivering again now that he's come, sweat cooling off on his naked skin, which wasn't nearly warm enough to begin with when they started fooling around, and Kris stands back, tries to take a step away, ignore how hard he is and how much he doesn't want to act responsibly.

"You should take a shower," he says, "for the temperature thing. You're gonna get sick if you don't," but as the words leave his lips he's having trouble keeping his hands off Adam's back, so solid under his palms—his fingers fidget, trying to hold back, and Kris guesses that doesn't really do a lot for his case.

"Later," Adam says, and that's permission enough for Kris to drop his hand down to Adam's ass.

"I _really_," Kris says, enunciating, "seriously do not want to be responsible for you losing your voice for good. Or for longer than any given five minutes."

"This is so not the time for you to be noble," Adam says, a moment of brightness followed by a sharp intake of breath, the clank of Adam's teeth pressing hard together, deliberately defying how cold he is. The incredulity must show on Kris's face, because then Adam says, "No, seriously, I like this," and starts kissing him, and Kris figures if Adam won't restore his body temperature himself, Kris might as well do his best to keep him warm.

He means to just press against him, try to keep his mind off sex until Adam's fine, actually fine, until he has a truly stable temperature to get back to, but then he notices the eyeliner smudged over Adam's lids, and his hair still dripping. It's not as wet as it was before, but the water has dripped over his shoulders, and it's easy for Kris to collect a drop or two on his thumb, raise one hand to Adam's face and run his thumbs over the remains of black make-up. Kris is concentrating on the way the black tint disappears when he feels Adam's tongue on his little finger, his lips closing around it, sucking it in. For a second Kris thinks Adam might be hinting towards sucking Kris off, but then he realizes his other hand's still perched on Adam's ass, fingers fluttery but still vaguely, almost unconsciously parting Adam's cheeks, and Kris's breath catches in his throat.

"Seriously, be the opposite of noble," Adam says, and drags his hands down over Kris's butt, yanking his sweatpants down alongside. They pool around Kris's ankles, and Kris just laughs, nips at Adam's bottom lip and slips another finger into Adam's mouth, and another before he decides he can take this slow, but not that slow.

He spreads his arm around Adam to grab a small bottle of lube out of Adam's toiletries bag, sets it on the counter where it's reachable and kisses Adam again, a long, deep kiss before nibbling down his shoulder, following the intermittent trickle of water from his hair until he's using a hand to move Adam's hips so he can lick down the incredible expanse of his back.

"Turn around," he mutters, and Adam does before questioning anything.

"What are you—" Adam asks again, swallows. "What are you doing," he repeats, but this time it sounds like he knows exactly what Kris is doing, especially when he lets out a stifled laugh as Kris sinks his teeth into the back of his arm, making a point, though Kris isn't sure what point that is.

But fuck, Adam's back is _amazing_. It's amazing when Adam's still asleep, early in the morning, and Kris can play connect-the-dots with that ridiculous tapestry of freckles, and it's amazing when he can lick raindrops from the bottom of his neck down along his shoulder blades, Adam's back solid but pliant, arching into every other press of his tongue, every other time Kris bites and licks and sucks on the mark.

He considers dragging Adam to the bed now, making this easier on his knees, but he doesn't want to fumble with that, doesn't want to get off before he can fuck Adam. The pain in his knees keeps him there, on the edge, waiting it off, dealing with it as well as possible as he holds Adam's cheeks apart and leans down to lick down from the base of Adam's spine, tongue still wet with rain and all that stupidity and thirst that sweeps over Kris whenever Adam's right there in front of him.

He slips his tongue down across Adam's hole, eliciting a grunt, and pulls off to lick two fingers and fit them in first, stretching Adam around them before shoving his tongue in, deep as it'll go. Adam takes a few seconds to relax, and then Kris pulls his fingers out and concentrates on fucking Adam with his tongue until Adam's hissing, cursing, and it takes a deep groan for Kris to realize Adam's hard again.

"That good?" Kris asks. He sounds cocky to his own ears, but he means the question.

Adam hisses and twists, grunting in response, first, then says, "You can just fuck me, Kris, jesus," and Kris means to, he really does, and he smiles before he dives back in, pushing his tongue in and out until he hears another hiss and pictures Adam's tongue between his teeth, that little look of concentration Adam gets when he's making an effort not to move too much.

Kris can't focus for long like this, anyway, and Adam's doing this little sweet dance, pushing back onto Kris's fingers and tongue, and really way past ready for this.

There's a rush through his head when he gets to his feet, feels Adam turn around and hold him through his haze and that's the only reason he doesn't fall, Kris thinks stupidly, grabbing onto Adam's hair and pressing him close, nipping at the side of his neck as they walk backwards out of the bathroom, towards the bed.

They get there without any major incidents, except for Kris somehow managing to hit his ankle on the doorframe after he trips over a discarded pair of pants, but the pain seems hazy against the way his dick is just _aching_. Adam settles on his back, folds a pillow under his ribs and grabs a condom from the bedside table, deftly rolling it down Kris's length and wrapping his long legs around Kris before Kris even gathers the presence of mind to crack the bottle of lube open.

"So what is it about that that got you hot?"

Kris doesn't look up, just goes, "Hm?", and coats his fingers with lube, leaves the tube back on the bedside table.

"If it's not that I was soaked," Adam says. "Is it like a nursing complex thing?"

Kris frowns. "If that was it," he begins, unconsciously moaning at the light press of his own hand when he fists his own cock, getting it slick with lube, "if that was it I must suck at it. You should be in the shower or something, stabilizing your—temperature or whatever," and he tugs at his cock once more before positioning himself just right and pushing in.

"So you just wanted to lick me," Adam says, chuckling breathily, shifting underneath Kris, twisting to screw himself further down Kris's cock.

Kris lets his head fall forward and braces his arms around the back of Adam's thighs, says, "Pretty much, yeah, that was—yeah, that was it," and pushes in harder, and from then on he's pretty sure he couldn't get another coherent word out if he tried.

It's not the first time they've done this, but in the past couple of months they've fallen into a sort of pattern where Adam manhandles Kris into supply closets and public restrooms and other places where it's just much easier for Adam to hold Kris up against a wall than the other way around, and Kris likes it that way. Just sometimes he likes this, too, likes the feel of Adam's long legs wrapped around him, likes pushing into Adam until Adam's head tips back and he starts thrusting back into Kris lazily, almost like he's surrendered, like there's nothing else for him to do but give into Kris, let him take the lead for once.

The storm's still going on outside, sometimes mostly silent, sometimes roaring with thunder, and consistently making shadows over the room, shaping up the light from the bedside lamp that reflects on the walls. There's something about it that makes _this_—sex, just sex—almost solemnly beautiful, like the balance of the world hangs on the way half of Adam's chest is covered in shadow, the darkness flickering and reshaping as Kris ducks his head to steal a kiss or two, brief contact of their lips and Kris's tongue gliding away over the side of Adam's chin when he pushes harder into Adam and Adam tilts his head sideways, lets out a long moan.

Kris rests his nose on Adam's shoulder, feeling the heaving of Adam's chest under his teeth when they scrape the skin below Adam's collarbone. Kris looks down at Adam's swollen cock and slips an arm between them, hand reaching to smear pre-come down the head, slick up his palm before wrapping a fist around Adam and tugging. Kris is vaguely aware of the noises he's making, the stupid whimpers and the groans and some kind of chant he can't help about how much he loves Adam's dick, which should be more ridiculous than the whimpers but never feels like it when it's just rushing out of his lips.

When he looks back up Adam turns to face him, mouth slack. His glance flickers down to Kris's mouth before he lets his head fall back on the mattress again and he mutters, "Fuck, Kris," followed by a bunch of other curses that trip over his tongue incomprehensibly, vowels muffled at their sides by heavy panting as he speeds up the rhythm of his upward thrusts, thighs tensing around Kris and a hand clenching around Kris's arm. Adam squeezes hard, once, and promptly comes again, spilling all over Kris's fingers and his own belly.

He doesn't—can't—last after that. His cock feels like it's about to burst, and Adam looks fucked out, mouth open wide and jaw slack and chest showing the rhythm of his breathing, and then he clenches his ass around Kris's cock a couple times and Kris is gone, just emptying himself as the storm dries out into thunder.

It's kind of amazing, actually, how it's almost in sync with him, how the rain starts up again as he pulls out, gets rid of the condom, sinks back on the bed.

   
 

Kris doesn't know how long they lie there listening to the rain, but it can't be too long, because when he tries to move, he's not too sticky yet.

"It's just pouring out there," Adam mentions, badly stifling a snort.

Kris frowns, says, "No joke," flat as anything, and feels torn between wanting to punch him for being such an idiot or just humor him, laugh along.

It's almost nice like this, the rain. The constant of it, very... evocative. Kris isn't sure what it's supposed to evoke, but it's definitely something.

They still have some time before their free hours end, but Kris wants to use that time while not worrying about Adam dying of the flu, so he just grabs his arm, drags him out of bed. Even if there are covers and crap, he should probably get wet again and dry off properly. If he wants to avoid a visit from the doctor, anyway, and Adam kind of hates doctors. It's one of those irrational dislikes people have.

The storm's having ups and downs—right now the sky's pouring its heart out, no lighting or thunder or any other crap. Just pouring.

Adam actually complains, says, "I'm so not even remotely cold anymore," and Kris says, "Whatever, just to make sure," and Adam says, "You're getting in with me, right? At this point you need it more than I do," and Kris considers acting mock-offended before he shakes his head and turns on the hot water, muffling the noise of the rain outside.

He steps into the main room again to get Adam's shampoo, and by the time he's done ravaging the towel cupboard the rain is winding down into a light drizzle outside the window, drops like fireworks bouncing on and off the balustrade.


End file.
